by Nick Oldham
‘Yes,’ he said simply.
Henry nodded to Byrne. The sheet was drawn back over Joey’s head.
Troy screamed, making both Henry and Byrne jump. He twisted away and ran out of the viewing room before Henry could grab him. ‘Liars!’ he yelled. ‘Fucking liars!’ He ran like a rugby player, dodging out of the door, down the corridor, skidding through a door marked, ‘Technicians Only’.
He surprised Dr Baines and Jan, the mortuary technician, both of whom were slurping a slice of rather sloppy pepperoni pizza, which resembled body parts, into their mouths. With wide eyes, and pizzas poised above their mouths, they watched Costain tear past. He ran to the viewing-room entrance where Byrne was waiting to receive and stop him. Costain’s screams turned into an ear-piercing war cry. He swung his weight into Byrne and heaved him back against the wall, winding him, and burst through into the viewing room. He dragged the sheet off Joey’s body.
And stopped dead. He did not move other than for the rise and fall of his heaving chest, transfixed by the horrifying sight of the gutted body which had once been his brother.
Henry came in behind, too late.
‘Now do you believe me?’ he said quietly. ‘Not even the Khans are capable of doing this.’
Troy Costain nodded dumbly, then keeled over in a faint. Henry caught him before he hit the tiled floor.
Her eyes were open, but she could not see because the darkness was total, absolute. Not a sliver of light. Not even enough to dimly make out anything.
She listened. Somewhere there was the hum of something. Indistinct, but constant. She was unable to tell what it was. An engine, perhaps.
She tried to move her hands, but they were bound tightly behind her, no play in the binding, whatever it was. Some sort of sticky tape. Same with her legs, bound together tightly by tape – thick, parcel tape.
Christ! Parcel tape! She started to sob. Parcel tape – just like the tape that had bound and gagged Joey Costain.
While ensconced in the rather cosseted world of the detective, Henry had forgotten just how much pressure the uniformed side of the constabulary was under. Not that there wasn’t the pressure on the CID, it just seemed easier to manage and there seemed more time to get things done. The uniform side, and in particular those engaged in response duties, were being run ragged and had little quality time to devote to jobs.
That evening Henry was painfully very aware that, as he kept one ear attuned to the radio round his neck, the officers on his shift – scale D – were constantly busy, going from job to job relentlessly. Henry was finding it quite hard to keep abreast of what was going on because in the past he had always used the radio for his own selfish means, as and when needed. He had never been at its beck and call as he was now. He just wanted to turn the sodding thing off, but could not.
‘Let’s get back in,’ he said to Byrne as they pulled away from the Costain household. They had delivered Troy back into the bosom of the family, broken the news and then spent three-quarters of an hour dealing with the emotional fall-out. Henry was exhausted by it all. He had enough of his own baggage; dealing with other people’s was draining. ‘Head into the nick and we’ll take stock of things.’
Byrne drove through Shoreside.
‘What the hell’s happened to Jane and Mark?’ Henry mused out loud. It was bugging him.
The estate was alive with activity. Things seemed to be hotting up for another night of fun and games. This would be Henry’s priority, keeping the peace on the streets. It frustrated him because he believed he should be searching for Jane and Mark. This was where his skills would be used to their best advantage – detecting. He was pragmatic enough to realise he would not be given a chance at it and would have to do what he could when he could.
‘That support unit from Blackburn should have arrived by now,’ Byrne said, and to confirm this, in one of those moments that never happen in real life, Blackpool communications called Henry.
‘Go ahead,’ he said.
‘The Eastern Division PSU have just arrived and they’re awaiting deployment.’
‘I’ll be in shortly to brief them.’
‘Roger. There’s some other things you need to know about, too.’
Henry’s heart sank.
‘The custody sergeant wants to speak to you urgently about last night’s attempted suicide.’
‘Yep, got that.’
‘And I’ve just deployed a patrol from the station to a report that someone thinks they saw three guys throw something into the sea that looked like a body.’
‘Got that, too.’
‘ACC Fanshaw-Bayley wants to speak to you as soon as possible. He’s in the Gold Room.’
‘Got that. Anything else?’
‘Standby –’ There was a pause. ‘Inspector?’
‘Receiving.’
‘Blackburn have just been on – you’re not going to like this much –’ Henry did not say anything, but waited, ‘and report that twenty-odd cars have just left the Whalley Range area of Blackburn, en route to Blackpool, all containing Asian youths. Intelligence is that they’re out for trouble on Shoreside, led by Saeed Khan. They’re going after the Costains.’
‘That’s all I need,’ Henry said to Byrne. Into the radio, he said, ‘Roger. There couldn’t be anything else, could there?’
‘Standby – treble-nine just come in,’ the voice of the operator rose a couple of tones. ‘From the Pink Ladies’ Club on the promenade. The landlord thinks there’s a suspect device in the premises. Repeat, a suspect device.’
‘On my way,’ Henry said crisply. ‘Blue light,’ he said to Byrne, who flipped the rocker switch and jammed his foot down hard on the gas pedal.
Seventeen
It was desperately cold on the promenade. An icy biting wind slashed in like a razor from the Irish Sea. It was certainly no weather to be dressed in a thin, white silk blouse, unbuttoned to below breast level, the lack of support for a very fine pair of breasts underneath the material very obvious from the outstanding (literally and aesthetically) nipples pushing up and out. A tight leather skirt cut off high above the knee, fishnet stockings and high-heeled shoes completed the outfit.
John Howard, known professionally as Pussy Beaver, flicked his bobbed silver hair, dusted with sparkling glitter, back off his face and inserted a cigarette, in a long, thin, penis-shaped holder between his high-glossed lips. His arms were folded under his splendid breasts and, as he shivered, they wobbled divinely.
As ever, he looked completely amazing – his long tapering legs coveted by many real women – very voluptuous and desirable.
He was standing outside the Pink Ladies’ Club which he owned and ran with ruthless efficiency. The place had become one of the north of England’s leading night spots. People from all over the country and abroad came in their thousands to experience the outrageous shows and behaviour on display every night of the week. It was a favourite venue for hen parties. It had made John Howard, who described himself as ‘Head Pussy’, a millionaire.
There was a long queue outside, several hundred people, mostly raucous groups of half-drunk females. By the time the night was over, two thousand people would have passed through the doors. At £12.50 a head and the cheapest drink at the bar £2.50, the Pink Ladies’ Club turned over £40,000 a night, five nights a week.
‘Oh, thank God you’ve arrived,’ Pussy Beaver fawned and tottered unsteadily over to the police car which pulled into the side of the road.
Henry climbed out, a smirk on his face. Byrne was out less quickly.
Only when he was a few paces from him, did Pussy recognise Henry.
‘My my! It’s Henry Christie,’ he chirped. ‘It’s you! In uniform too! My God, but you look totally fuckable in that outfit! Oh God, I could just lick your dick here and now, in the middle of the thoroughfare.’
‘Jesus,’ Henry heard Byrne remark with disgust behind him.
‘And if you had a fanny,’ Henry bantered, ‘believe me, I’d let you.’
‘I’m finnicky like that.’
They laughed and shook hands. Henry had known Howard for several years, first meeting him when the club had been petrol-bombed by some local youths who hated what people like Howard stood for. Henry had arrested two nineteen-year-olds who had been subsequently imprisoned and a friendship of sorts had sprung up between him and Howard.
‘So what’s the crack, John?’ Henry asked. More police cars pulled up, one containing Karl Donaldson and Andrea Makin hotfoot from the police station.
‘I think we might have found a bomb inside. It’s a suspicious package at least.’ John had dropped his high-pitched feminine tones and his voice had lowered an octave to become more masculine.
‘What makes you think it’s a bomb?’
‘Lunchbox left under a table in a dark corner of the main bar. It doesn’t seem right, if you know what I mean?’
‘Anybody touch it?’
‘No.’
‘Anyone see who put it there?’
Howard shrugged his shoulders.
‘How about your security cameras?’
‘I’ll get them checked.’
‘Ah well, at least we’ve done some good tonight,’ Henry said, thinking about the job PC Taylor had been doing, warning people about the possible danger.
‘How have you done that?’ Howard’s face screwed up quizzically.
‘Haven’t you been visited by a PC this evening, dishing out leaflets asking you to be on your guard?’
‘Nope.’
‘Oh, never mind then. He can’t have got round to you yet. Let’s get on with this. How many people are inside?’
‘Hundred and fifty, maybe a few more. I haven’t let anyone else in since it was found.’
‘Good.’ Henry beckoned to Karl Donaldson. ‘You want to come in, Karl, just in case?’
‘Yes.’
‘OK, John, lead the way.’
Pussy Beaver twirled on his stilettos, resumed the acting voice and led Henry, Byrne and Donaldson through the clearly irritated and impatient crowd, drawing jeers of contempt.
‘C’mon, out of the way, luvvies – out of the way – can’t you see the main act has arrived?’
Henry whispered to Byrne, ‘He once let me feel his tits.’ The inspector laughed, while the sergeant recoiled. ‘Just like the real things,’ he added.
With the efficiency Henry always associated with the man, Pussy Beaver had ensured that his bouncers (woman wrestlers capable of dismembering anyone foolish enough to have a go) had sealed off a good proportion of the bar area. They were standing guard, preventing any punters from entering the exclusion zone around the seat under which the package had been discovered.
As good as the cordon was, though, Henry knew that if it was a bomb under that seat and it did explode, everyone in the club would have a better than average chance of being blasted to pieces.
‘It’s under there.’ With an expertly manicured finger, Pussy indicated the offending spot – a bench in an alcove, out of sight of the bar.
‘Thanks. Now you go and stand well back and get everyone as far away as possible, too.’ Henry touched his radio to ensure it was switched ‘off ’ for definite. ‘Is yours off?’ he asked Byrne, who nodded. It was standard procedure to switch personal radios off because bombs had been known to be detonated by radio waves before now.
Henry took a deep breath and wondered if this was one of those times when the inspector should take a purely strategic view of events and order a lower-ranking officer to do the dirty work. Tempting – but he could just imagine the word that would circulate the station if he did. He would be branded a coward. Having said that, better a live strategist than a dead tactician, he thought. The idea went out of his head as quickly as it had come into it.
‘I want to have a look, too.’ Karl Donaldson stepped forward.
Henry saw the look of determination on the American’s face. He knew it would be useless to object. Donaldson had a very personal interest.
‘Suit yourself, but don’t blame me if you get blown up.’
Donaldson placed a hand over his heart. ‘Promise.’
At least Henry knew he would not die alone.
Henry told Byrne, Makin and everyone else to get well back and take some cover if possible. He and Donaldson then approached the alcove. Henry expected it to be a false alarm. Either a hoax or a mistake, or a piece of lost property. Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a thousand this was the case.
But as he walked towards the package, there was the niggle this could be that one time, the possibility it could be the real thing. The only consolation was that if it blew, there wouldn’t be much to feel. A surge of heat, noise and then death.
Some consolation. Both men felt very vulnerable.
‘You made a will?’ Henry asked.
‘Yep. You?’
‘Yep.’ As Henry answered a stab of thought cut through his mind of Kate and his two daughters. He saw all their faces. Then it was gone. It was a short, painful thought.
‘My throat’s as dry as the bottom of my cockatoo’s cage,’ Donaldson admitted.
Henry stopped walking and laid a hand on his friend’s bicep. ‘You have a cockatoo?’ Donaldson nodded. ‘I never knew that, you sad person.’
‘Thanks for that.’
They continued to walk.
‘I’m actually feeling dead cool about this,’ Henry boasted, paused and added, ‘not.’
The short journey seemed endless. Then they were down on their knees on the carpet among the beer stains and fag ash, noses almost to the floor. Henry flashed his Maglite underneath the bench seat.
There it was. A lunchbox. Tucked behind a seat leg. Not in a place where it could have fallen or rolled accidentally. To get where it was it must have been placed there deliberately. Through the opaque plastic, indistinct shapes could be seen inside. Not sandwiches or Kit-Kats. Strapped to it by tape was a detonator.
‘He’s here,’ Donaldson breathed.
Getting the general public to take any evacuation seriously was difficult. No one ever truly believed the danger, that it could be a real bomb, that they could get killed. It did not help when most of them that evening were half-cut.
Once, though, Blackpool had been the target for the IRA when incendiary devices inside several shops had caused massive amounts of damage. So it could happen.
Henry ordered all available officers to attend the scene, including the recently arrived PSU and those officers recently deployed to investigate the possibility of a body in the sea. He began the tiresome job of emptying the club of people who did not want to leave, then trying to evacuate and close all the surrounding premises which consisted mainly of amusement arcades, another night club and several burger joints. Next, the promenade itself had to be closed two hundred metres in both directions. All traffic had to be diverted inland and the trams had to be stopped. Chaos reigned.
Then he needed to establish a rendezvous point.
The only easy thing was calling out the bomb disposal squad: they were already resident in the town because of the party conference.
Henry did a lot of shouting, ordering, threatening and cajoling, and found himself very much the centre of attention. In a perverted sort of way he enjoyed it all, even if at the back of his mind the worry remained about Jane Roscoe and Mark Evans.
‘One thing, bud,’ Karl Donaldson said in his ear. ‘Don’t put the RV point in the obvious place, just in case it is our man.’ Henry gave him a blank look. ‘Remember, he bombed the last RV point in Miami with a secondary device. I don’t want that to happen here.’
‘Good point, well made.’
With that in mind Henry decided to use Adelaide Street West, which, though a one-way street, could be used to allow access to emergency vehicles from both directions. It was out of a direct line of sight of the club, some hundred and fifty metres north of it. Henry got the traffic department to cordon of
f the street and park the big accident unit in it to be the centre of the RV point.
Amazingly this was all achieved within about fifteen minutes, adding fuel to Henry’s belief that the police were a great ‘doing’ organisation. They liked being told to do things, just didn’t like to think about anything else too deeply.
As everything fell into place, the bomb disposal squad arrived on scene.
Within minutes they were reversing the robot ‘wheelbarrow’ out of the back of their vehicle, intending to use it instead of a man. It was a safer option than sending a man in to fiddle about with what increasingly appeared to be a real bomb. The wheeled machine, which resembled a small tank, was equipped with a camera through which the operator – who never left the back of the equipment van – could see exactly where it was going. He could manoeuvre it down, up and around most obstacles using a remote-controlled joystick; the wheelbarrow was also fitted with a double-barrelled shotgun which, when loaded with the appropriate shot, could be discharged into a suspect device to bring about a controlled explosion. The wheelbarrow was a common sight on the streets of Belfast. It was not so well known in Blackpool.
It set off on its journey.
Henry peered over the shoulder of the operator and watched the monitor which was showing the picture from the camera on the front of the contraption. The wheelbarrow trundled up the pavement rather like something out of Star Wars, a very hi-tech piece of machinery, developed over the years by the army to do a dangerous job. It had saved the lives of countless soldiers in the battle against the Provisional IRA.
The journey continued up the promenade to the front entrance of the club. The operator did a right turn and the machine lurched through the first door which Henry had left wedged open.
‘Here we go,’ the soldier said.
The wheelbarrow moved through the door into the entrance foyer, straight across the tiled floor to the stairs leading down to the main bar where the package was located. The steps were easy. Like a tank on Salisbury Plain tackling a steep hill, the wheelbarrow just took them in its stride, even the one-eighty degree turn halfway down was no problem. Henry was impressed. The skilled soldier at the remote control manoeuvred the wheelbarrow round and into the bar, where it stopped and had a look round.